When the Evening Comes

This night's hand stretched
across purpled green,

a finger pointed
at the hills. We say,

"we understand, we see"
when there is nothing.

Shadows of nothing-

an errant arrow, a poisoned
owl, the jagged flight of moths

makes its way back
to our darkening window.

Whose blessed vision flies
or walks a straight line?

Who returns from long, blind
journeys with unspent spine?

Even proud willows
bow over the lake

when evening comes.

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